3. Bailey
three
Bailey
“Fucking hell,” I grumble, bending to pick up my now saturated essay.
It must have rained just long enough during class to leave a puddle along the sidewalk.
Butterfingers Bailey here, reporting for duty.
Carrying both my ruined essay and wounded pride, I head up the stairwell of my dorm, footsteps heavy with defeat.
The first week of senior year has been absolute ass.
The familiar stench of body odor and feet hits a few seconds before the raucous noise of the second floor.
My irritation grows. The last few hours of studying did fuck all for my mental health.
Graduation can’t come soon enough. The bad news is, I’ll be heading straight to pharmacy school from here, so it’s not even worth celebrating.
It’s just hopping from one torture chamber to the next.
As luck would have it, my dorm room is the furthest from the stairs.
Yes, universe, please force me to walk past twenty other rooms before arriving at my destination.
An extrovert’s wet dream and my version of hell.
At least I lucked out and won’t have a roommate this semester. A major victory in my book.
“Yo, Bays!!” Liam bellows from behind a cracked door.
Has this goofdick been waiting on me?
Liam started calling me by my last name in middle school, promising me the ladies would love it. My best friend is imperious. In all the best ways, of course. I mean, he’s not wrong. Who the fuck wants to moan the name Simon?
“Why are you half naked in the doorway? Did last night’s fling not dip before sunrise?” I ask.
Liam’s bed has seen more tits than a mammogram machine. I’ve no doubt some freshman darted out of his room earlier this morning.
“Dude, it’s okay if you’re jealous,” he says. “What’s not okay is the way you just side-eyed my dick,” he bites out with a wink.
I didn’t fucking look at his dick. Did I? Fuck. Whatever. His blond curls fall loosely over his forehead as he laughs, blue eyes bright against his sharp jaw and pouty lips.
How is it even possible to have a six pack and eat like a trash panda? Honestly, I’ve always been jealous of his build, but I’d sooner raw-dog a wasp nest before grinding out two hours a day at the gym like he does. No thank you.
I’m more of the curated ramen-lean, nerdy physique.
Faded band tees and thrifted skinny jeans are my wardrobe essentials.
My glasses are always slipping down my nose at the most inopportune times, as if they’re just trying to add to the aesthetic.
My hair is as messy as I feel, and my phone storage is almost at capacity with Pokemon Go and Clash of Clans, crammed too full of useless stuff just like my brain.
I’m the nerdy sidekick in the movies who never loses his virginity. And if it’s a slasher? I’m dying first.
“Whatever, man,” I sigh, my cheeks flushing as I turn and head away from him.
“Bays, for real, wait up!” He chuckles in his deep, raspy timber.
He catches up to me, towel holding on for dear life, a devilish grin on his face. Liam laughs at my obvious despondence, then throws his free arm around my shoulders. I’m distracted by the towel’s tenacity at this point. Impressive.
“The rich kid down the hall is throwing a big ass party at his parents’ lake house this weekend and you, my guy, are fucking going.”
I roll my eyes, quickly slink out from under his arm, and take a tentative step away from him.
“Natalie’s going too so you won’t have to worry about being left behind when I, as an act of sheer dedication to the female orgasm, inevitably leave with someone in need of my skills,” he says with a wink.
Liam knows I despise crowds, parties resting below the bottom of my hierarchy of needs.
The only exception to my steadfast rule of the fewer humans, the better, is a concert.
I will toss myself straight into that sweaty sardine can and scream at the top of my lungs, chasing the high that only hearing your favorite songs live can give.
That euphoria is so good you forget that the asshat next to you isn’t wearing deodorant.
Liam continues, “And before you say no, might I remind you that you fucking owe me one? I’m cashing in that favor today, man.”
Shit.
I stop dead in my tracks and sigh. He’s right. He’s been holding onto that favor since freshman year. “Liam, you know how much I hate drunk people,” I groan. “You can’t be serious right now,” I plead. “Besides, that’s not really a favor,” I implore, crossing my arms defensively.
My eyes meet his with what I’m hoping is a look of indignation and not resignation. Judging by the amused look on Liam’s face, I probably just look like I need to shit.
“Oh, it’s totally a favor. You’re coming as my wingman, and I will accept nothing less. We’ll leave here at eight, the party starts at seven, but who shows up to a party on time? Losers, that’s who. Please wear something that isn’t black. And for fuck’s sake, leave your Vans here, man.”
I try to stifle a laugh and fail, a weird squeak of some sort escaping. I don’t think I own anything that isn’t black or dark grey. And Liam knows good and goddamn well that I won’t be wearing anything but Vans.
What he doesn’t know, however, is whether they will be the black-on-black high tops, black with gum soles, or black leather low tops. So, Ha! Joke’s on him, right?
I’ve no doubt that he knew long before he stopped me that he would get his way. Liam could talk a nun out of their vow of celibacy.
I shake my head in surrender, then begrudgingly decide to head to my dorm room.
“Fine,” I huff in exasperation, my steps intentionally heavy as I stomp off.
I hear Liam laughing at my little hissy fit as I plod off.
“See you at eight, Bays!” he bellows.
I ignore him. I know I’m being a total diva, but I don’t give two shits.
I’m tired. My head is swimming after cramming for an upcoming exam.
I tend to do this neat little trick called procrastination ninety-nine percent of the time.
And, every single time I pull that shit, I swear it’s the last, promising whatever god will hear my pathetic pleas, that I’ll do better.
Plan ahead, study in advance, maybe even hydrate.
But do I?
Absolutely the fuck not—and I hate myself a little more every single time. But, like a good little masochist, I continue to do it.
Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
“Hey, Master Beto,” I say in greeting as I grab a pinch of fish food and drop it into his bowl.
“Master what!?” I hear from my doorway. Did I seriously forget to shut the door? I turn to face Colby, one of the guys from down the hall.
“Bro, did you just say Master Beto? As in masterbate? Because, if so, that fish is about to become our new mascot,” he bellows.
“Yo, Liam!! You didn’t tell me your buddy was a fucking comedian!” he yells down the hall, still halfway in my room, hanging onto the door frame.
Okay, so I’m still twelve emotionally, but at least I’m funny.
“Yeah man it’s actually crazy that the little guy is still right-side up” I hear Liam say.
I sigh when I realize he’s headed this way.
“So, you have come to hear the legend of Master Beto,” he says, taking a bow.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” he begins.
“Bailey, our hero of this tale, was drunk. He was a lightweight back then, you see,” he pauses dramatically, “I thought I heard him say something about the pet store, so I loaded him into the Subaru and took him downtown.”
“He was so wasted I had to stop him from putting his hand in the snake habitats,” Liam adds. “Anyway, I looked away for a few seconds and lost him. I panicked for a minute until I found him at the fish tanks, staring at this little guy all alone.”
Sarah McLaughlin’s “In the Arms of an Angel” plays on repeat in my head every time Liam tells this story.
“He told me he wouldn’t leave without him. So I did what any responsible adult would do, and bought this sad man some company. Now he has an emotional support fish. Complete with fish food, pH drops, and a fishbowl. It’s a poor substitute for getting laid, but who am I to question such?”
Liam and Colby are both cracking up as Colby ambles back down the hall, shaking his head in disbelief.
I glance back at Beto, all fins and no regrets. I can’t help but smile every time I come home and find him chilling, ready to face another day. I remember bits and pieces of that night. Blips of a car ride, french fries, maybe an Avril Lavigne song in the Subaru?
I woke up the following morning with a hangover from hell and a brand spanking new bug-eyed goldfish.
I named him that afternoon. The following week Beto scored himself some fancy glass rocks, a pirate ship and a sparkling treasure chest. I can’t tell if he likes the décor, but he seems pretty content.
Hell, at least he’s a good listener.